My husband and I are going to a retirement dinner at a fancy shmancy country club tonight which means I’ll need to dress up and carry my big purse.
I think I circled “Fish” on the selection card Larry gave me a few weeks ago, only because there wasn’t a BYOF option: Bring Your Own Food.
Of course that doesn’t stop me from actually bringing my own food, thus the need for my big purse. I don’t eat real butter or full-fat sour cream or salad dressing, and restaurants rarely put enough tomatoes on a salad to satisfy this quasi-vegetarian (I haven’t weaned myself off turkey breast). Heck, most restaurants around here don’t realize that a real salad should be green, not the watery white of iceberg lettuce – a food that really needs to go extinct. The government should eliminate farm subsidies for any farmer who raises iceberg lettuce. That’ll stop its growth in a hurry.
So I’ll pack little Tupperware containers with a little light butter, some fat-free sour cream, a little low-fat ranch or balsamic vinaigrette, a handful of grape tomatoes, and maybe some low-fat cheddar cheese. Then for some crunch, I’ll bring along a package of whole grain melba toast.
I know, I know. Everyone will see my splendiferous salad and baked potato and be jealous. Not to worry, I’ll tell them. You can have my “fish.”
So is writing about this dinner and my food idiosyncrasies really what I wanted to say in a blog that took me four days to get out there? Oh, heck no. But you see, I’ve been distracted by nothing in particular and everything in general. I wake up, I go to bed, and the hours in between are swallowed by email and bike rides and visits to my old newsroom and more email and more bike rides and more people I haven’t seen since fall because winter kept us all inside.
I have to get used to a new schedule is all. Don’t we all after such a long winter? I’m distracted by a big fly that’s gotten in my house through the back door I can now leave wide open so the dogs can go out to the back yard as they please. I’m distracted by the male gold finches at the feeders, their colors so bright they scream, “Pick me! Pick me!” to potential mates.
I’m distracted by my spiffy new bike – a gift from my husband for getting to my goal weight – and it feels like a new car. I want to ride it everywhere and keep it all clean and shiny. I bought a pink water bottle and pink backpack to offset the fact that my bike has a men’s frame because of my freakishly long legs and arms (how is it that I’m only 5’5” tall?) and I have to tuck my hair into the helmet and so I look like a boy. Not that boys can’t wear pink…
And so I blame spring. Speaking of which, happy May Day! When I was a little girl, my mom and brother and I would make little May baskets and fill them with candy. Then we’d bring them to our friends’ homes and set them on the front stoop, ring the doorbell and run away. It was a nice way to greet spring and kick Old Man Winter to the curb.
To learn more about May Day, I found a simple, to-the-point site that offers information on those crazy pagans and their spring rites and rituals: http://members.aol.com/KiteCD/mayday.htm
I’m done blabbering. Besides, it’s almost time to get ready for the dinner and to pack up my purse.
But wait, I think I need to ride my bike a little first.
I’ll see you in a few days. At least that’s my plan.